


Nyctinasty

by MarlinspikeHall



Category: Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, Gay, Gay Sex, M/M, Mirror Sex, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-28 21:35:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17190746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarlinspikeHall/pseuds/MarlinspikeHall
Summary: Two one shots of Haddock and Tintin's early sex life from Haddock's point of view.





	Nyctinasty

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: nyctinasty describes flowers that close up at night time.

I

You are exquisite; breathless, open, legs draped over my shoulders as you surrender completely, wonderfully, supported only by the chair. You gasp, and scream in pleasure. Eyes wide, you seem to surprise yourself with the noise you make.

In the silence that falls, you realise how loud you were, and make a conscious effort to calm your breathing. Every part of you is beautiful, and I take in as much as you allow. I follow the line of freckles, and see the deep scar on your collarbone. I don't ask. I move on. We were in such a hurry earlier-

"- I didn't have the chance to look at you properly," I whisper.

You blush at the attention, and close your eyes again, as they were seconds before, in a moment of ecstasy. I run my hands down your bare legs as they retreat, but the moment is broken. You stare, suddenly aware of where we are, and, like a hibiscus flower in the dark, you fold up.

This is unexpected. 

You hug yourself, arms folded around legs, and give me a small smile.

Who could have predicted you were secretly shy? Quiet, too. Quieter than I've ever seen you. This, too, is unexpected.

I crouch down, and kiss the back of your hand. You grin, but look away, as if avoiding eye contact.

Was it your first time? I almost ask, but it doesn't matter. All that matters is it was ours. You're suddenly self-conscious, the smile frozen on your face, but fading in your eyes. Your nightclothes are down the corridor, in your room, so I improvise.

"Here," I gather my jumper from the floor. It's oversized on your skinny frame, enough to sufficiently cover you, and you become more settled.

You glance back at me, and look away again, flustered.

"Captain," you say, strained.

"Hmm?" I follow your gaze. "Oh!"

I'm not dressed. I grin, and move into the bathroom to find my robe.

When I return, you're half-asleep, draped in the chair. I pick you up with ease, and you grunt softly. I place you onto the king bed, and you roll onto your side.

I lie down hesitantly. We've slept closer than this before; in cramped tents, but separate sleeping bags. It's strange how we can share the same bed, but end up so distant from one another.

II

It was your idea, of course. It was my first indication that you'd been with others before me. I don't have much time to process how I feel about that, because you're on your knees, beneath me, and getting lower.

We both stood shirtless in the hallway, (with Nestor away on a short trip, we have Marlinspike to ourselves), and I did what you asked, stripping you with shaky hands. You, bold and certain, press your lips against my neck. I hadn't known what it was when you suggested it, which seemed to amuse you. You, my darling, are more experienced than me, though really, are either of us surprised?

"You don't know?" You say, with the kind of grin you get on adventures. "I'm sure, as Captain, you had your pick of any man."

I blush, in the way that only you seem able to make me, and a minute later, the flush only worsens as you whisper in my ear; a description of everything you plan to do to me. Speechless, silenced by your amused smile, I wordlessly consent. You kiss me. And move down.

Your mouth moves steadily down my bare torso, and I shudder, involuntarily. You smile; I feel it against my skin, and I'm still not sure what to expect. Your words alone gave me whiplash, so your lips could kill me.

The mirror. A final, cunning trick of yours; one you never mentioned, but I can see now why you steered me to this particular spot, on this particular wall, where floor-length reflections of me and you stand... and kneel. You've reached my stomach, and you look up at me with mischievous eyes, and I could die. I'm burning alive; I could die. My chest aches, and you've hardly started yet.

Every facet of my mind is filled with the image of you. I look straight down; your hands are unpicking the button on my waist. With the aid of the mirror, I can see your perfect arse. You've planned this perfectly; or better, worse, done it before, and again, I'm not sure how I feel.

You pull my clothes off. I'm terrified; elated. Shaking more than I should.

"I won't hurt you, Captain," you reassure me, and I make a strangled sound in response, because how can I reply? There is nothing I can say that would compare.

Gently, you guide my hand to the top of your head, and the other to your shoulder. I wind my fingers into your fiery hair. I thought the purpose was to provide some illusion of dominance, for it is you who is in control, dear Tintin; but you close your eyes, so I do it again. I tug, harder, and you seem content, so I draw you closer, daring you to follow through.

You take me in your mouth, and I momentarily lose my grip on you. My reflection stands accusingly, a trembling man, and you, you, you. I cry out; my legs won't support me. I pull away, and collapse to my own knees, but you push me to the ground, spread my legs, and hesitate, smirking, triumphant at the new reflection; a picture of you, above me, an angel of malice. 

You lean down, and continue; I am powerless, shrieking, sobbing, a mess. My hands are on you again, and I can't tell if it's me pushing you forwards, backwards, forwards, or it's you. It's both of us, in clumsy, grunting unison. I finished violently.

I think you realise something in that moment, as I deviate from the plan; as I deviate from your previous lovers, that my way may be rougher, less precise; but hell, do you love it.

I wait a moment, and glance at you; still ready. I sit up, and bring you back to the mirror. Puzzled, but pleasantly so, you confront your naked form; red-faced and breathless with excitement.

With sudden confidence, I don't know where from, I take control. I spread your legs, and close my hand tight around your cock, as I attend to you delicately. You gasp, and grunt as I lift your chin up to kiss your throat.

"You're adorable," I whisper.

"Fuck," you exhale shakily, which turns into ragged breathing, followed by a prolonged groan. Gently, not enough to leave a mark, I bite your neck, impressed by your tolerance. You collapse against my chest, and contort yourself round to kiss me. I can taste myself on your tongue, and growl into your open mouth.

A faint, aroused moan. I bite your tongue softly, and break away from the kiss, slicking my fingers in my mouth and pushing your pelvis upwards. You understand instantly, and arch away from me. I enter you, and you yell, head thrown back in your beautiful way.

"You're a work of art," I hiss, scissoring my fingers inside you as you come, screaming. Fascinated, I watch you in the mirror, and pull out.

You rest your head against my chest, and I wrap my arms around you with the last of my strength, holding you close. We pant, lying weakly on the floor, and when you inevitably try to squirm away from me, I close my eyes, and assure you I can see nothing, all for a few precious moments of cuddling.

I thought, for a while, this was the established order: I am shy when we make love, and you after.


End file.
